


30 Years: Do You Feel Like a Hero Yet?

by crux_sirenia



Series: The Maxis Pyramid [1]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: BO:CW Never Happened Here, Canon Divergence, Gen, Heavy Angst, Historical Compliance with the Exception of Supernatural Forces, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Since Alternate Universes Exist in Canon I Believe This is Completely Possible, Tags May Change, Things Get Better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28321176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crux_sirenia/pseuds/crux_sirenia
Summary: Samantha Maxis had given them a choice. "Tank" Dempsey took the one option he believed worked best in the end, but the "end" is a vague subject that he never thought too hard about. There was no end for Dempsey; Samantha knew that. In what should be a brighter future, Dempsey would come to know a foreign feeling, something he'd barely considered before: regret.All he wanted was to find that damn ship.🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎Old "Tank" Dempsey’s heard countless stories about Alex Mason. Some fabricated, some exaggerated, and some downright tragic. He’d never know the truth, not until he’s met the younger man himself. Dempsey never planned on it, though. It never crossed his mind. The Charleston 1976 annual Veteran’s Day Celebration changes that. For better or for worse, it turns out they have a lot in common.
Relationships: "Tank" Dempsey & Alex Mason, "Tank" Dempsey/Edward Richtofen, Alex Mason & Frank Woods, Alex Mason & Jason Hudson, Alex Mason/Viktor Reznov
Series: The Maxis Pyramid [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2074101
Comments: 20
Kudos: 13





	1. 30.1 Introduction: Thomas “Tank” Dempsey

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows a different timeline that I spent a few hours scratching down. While less “alien” and strange than the canon BOZ story/stories, it’s still relatively supernatural (but much more historically compliant.) As far as BlackOps goes, this timeline happily ignores everything that happened in BO:CW. This is only one of a few stories I’ll have in this particular timeline. I decided to start with this one since, oddly, I have seen very few crossovers between these two arcs in the years this fandom has been around. 
> 
> Also includes WAW characters and references, 'cause WAW is awesome and doesn't get enough attention.
> 
> (30.1 and 30.2 are simply introductions. The "crossover" begins in the third chapter.)

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

**30.1 Introduction: Thomas “Tank” Dempsey**

Thirty years ago, Thomas Dempsey woke up in Japan on a bright Tuesday morning. How, when, or why he was there were questions he did not, or could not, ask himself. His brain simply wouldn’t try. Whether that was his fault or not, Dempsey didn’t know otherwise. Dempsey didn’t know a lot of things. Around him walked familiar bodies, voices, and the smiles of soldiers he once knew as deadmen. Dempsey remembers, long ago, watching those same grinning faces succumb to pestilence; a sickening yellow glaze covered their widened eyes and thick tar-black tears secreted in waves from crusted tear ducts. Their scarred split lips curled back in a snarl and they screamed through bared bloody teeth- a horrific, pained cry- before charging frantically towards the nearest target. 

It was so difficult, Dempsey recalled, to pick up his shotgun and fire; never has he struggled to take the shot before. He was no coward, _“Tank”_ Dempsey was _not_ a coward- but restrain to harm a brother-in-arms, regardless of his current state, wasn’t cowardice; it’s respect, and yet with every splattered wall and gore-covered floor, moving forward eventually became just a little easier, but the diseased and brutalized bodies of the men he once called his friends left a haunting shadow in the back of Dempsey’s mind.

Thirty years ago, Thomas Dempsey woke up in Japan on a bright Tuesday morning. He recalled staying at some Nihonbashi inn, lying on a comfortable bed in a lightly decorated room. On the other side of its walls, a noisy city bustled with life. This, Dempsey understood well, was definitely not the world that he died in.

A plethora of soldiers, all with familiar faces, had surrounded Dempsey the moment he left the inn; they stood in every hall, every corner, and wandered the streets outside. Those that approached him came not to attack, as Dempsey had feared. Instead, they greeted him, happily no less, as the friend that they remembered him as. With wide smiles, the soldiers carried on as they would have before, grabbing his ass and punching his shoulder; a typical “how are you, man?” 

Dempsey would have regarded these friendly gestures with relief, a sign that the horrific world he had suffered in for so long was gone forever; but somewhere in his gut, Dempsey knew that it would _never_ truly disappear. He bared the evidence to prove it, on his skin and within what little memory remained of his past; and even if he didn’t, he _lived_ it. That was proof enough.

His brethren spoke of him as a hero: _"_ _Cpl. Thomas "Tank" Dempsey, a man of great courage and massive achievement,"_ but he couldn’t recall the rewards he supposedly reaped, or what "great courage" led to him earning such a title; and yet Dempsey acted as if he’d been there all along, triumphant, celebrating the allied victory and swimming in the patriotic glow that the other soldiers loved so much. There wasn’t much he could do, aside from humoring them and their claims. The truth was never an option.

These men knew nothing of the Breakout, of _115,_ or the disaster that could have been. They knew nothing of his dreaded memories, a doomed world, the terror that Dempsey still carries with him. They know nothing of the horrors that he relives over and over within his dreams. They don’t know what Dempsey knows, and Dempsey didn’t know a lot of things.

The Occupation of Japan lasted several years after the nation had finally surrendered to the United States, but the need for Marine participation was no longer significant. In winter of 1946, Dempsey and his brethren were finally sent back home. 

Their disease-ridden future was now Dempsey’s past, but time within that dark world was practically incomprehensible. Arriving on America’s western shores felt like a dream, “home” was a faded memory, hazy and bleak even as his flight crossed into his native state of South Carolina. Dempsey knew he should be happy here. After countless days fighting for his life in a doomed world, he should be _so fucking happy here._

A legitimate smile never once crossed his face.

Thirty years ago, Thomas Dempsey finally came home, and ever since then, he could never forget everything he’d left behind in the horror he tried so desperately to escape. Opening the door to his house felt like betrayal, but Dempsey couldn’t even remember who he was crossing. The cold season brought in an awful chill from the coast. His home wasn’t spared the winter weather, it seemed; stepping inside was like entering a morgue. At least he had a furnace.

Dempsey’s steps towards the kitchen slowed to a sudden stop. On his dining room table, a strangely vivid red rose rested alone in an old opaque glass vase. How it was even alive was a mystery to him. No one had been living here for over three years, and Dempsey definitely did _not_ keep flowers in his house.

_“There are not many things that would make a “suitable” gift anymore, sadly. I hope rosing you with flowers is enough this Christmas, mein Freund. Nein you idiot- Dempsey, you are blushing! Nikolai! Tell this fool he is as red as a fox!”_

Thirty years ago, Thomas Dempsey fell to a mind-breaking headache that dropped him to his kitchen floor. Thirty years ago, he remembered their names. All of them.

_“Nikolai will be generous. Christmas is time to be generous. Everyone gets share of vodka! ...Even Takeo.”_

_“I do not need your generosity, Russian, but I will remember your kindness.”_

_“You better. This is last time I will be nice to you! Doktor, Dempsey, have some vodka! We drink night away together!”_

Three men: a broad Russian full of bellowing laughter, a quiet Japanese man of undying loyalty, and a prideful Prussian that stared Dempsey down with sharp daggered eyes. He knew these men. He knew them well. 

In this world, they would be enemies. Dempsey couldn't see them as enemies, even now; these were his _friends,_ and that wasn't a term he used lightly. Friendship is built upon trust. Dempsey _trusted_ these men _._ Such a longing feeling crept inside his chest, twisting in tight circles around his heart, and Dempsey soon found that trust meant something much more to him, if only he could recall what.

_“Magst du Blumen, Dempsey? I tried to find the brightest one. I think it compliments your personality- Das war kein Scherz... idiot!"_

Thirty years. It’s been thirty fucking years. Dempsey was certain of it now. No matter how hard he looked, how many people he spoke to, how many names he searched through- he couldn't find them. He would _never_ see them again.

Yet those memories, what little he had left, would still remain; a haunting shadow in the back of his mind, a reminder of everything he left behind, all for the sake of no one but himself.

Nothing had been at the shore waiting for them. 

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The title is a reference to SpecOps: The Line. That game changed my life forever and now I am permanently scarred in the best of ways. I highly recommend it if you can find a copy of it anywhere.)
> 
> (Occassionally German sentences will appear throughout the story, in Dempsey's memories. If you happen to speak German, please correct me if my grammar is bad. I'm not a native speaker, I only know what I've retained from school.)
> 
> Next Chapter: 30.2 Introduction: Alex Mason


	2. 30.2 Introduction: Alex “Lebed” Mason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. This chapter wasn't meant to be this long lol

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

 **30.2 Introduction: Alex** **_“Lebed”_ ** **Mason**

Every night seemed to get colder and colder. The space heater remained on for hours at a time, but the apartment still kept a chill in each room. Autumn months normally aren’t this cold, especially in the southern states. Mason knew strong winters in Fairbanks; he witnessed gray skies and felt the constant freezing bite for weeks on end. It shouldn't be like this in Charleston. It felt like winter in November.

In his hands, he held a small but heavy red drawstring bag. On the bedside table, the little clock read 3 AM. Three hours until sunrise. He shouldn’t be awake. He has plans today.

That never stopped him before.

Mason clutched the tiny plush bag to his chest. A chill prickled his skin. 

It felt like winter in November.

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

Alex Mason hated the winter. Winters were dull and colorless. The trees had long lost their patterns of leaves to the chill. Freezing breezes made it difficult to spend much time outside. Gloved hands couldn’t hold on tight enough to anything. The ground was coated several feet deep in snow for miles, it's practically impossible to walk on it without struggle. Even in the thickest coats and warmest clothes, the harsh winds still find ways to nip at the face. Once there was a time when the season brought Mason joy, recalling his fond memories of home in Alaska. As a child, he loved the snow; he'd play in it almost every day with his dogs, watching them bury their snouts in the thick white blankets and sniffing out whatever happened to be nearby. Upon reaching his early teens, Mason began going on long overnight hunts with his father, and learned how to track bears and caribou in the winter months. When in Alaska, you couldn't avoid the cold, but that never bothered Mason before. Winter was a part of his life.

But what once was a portion of his happiness had eroded into a deep darkness that Mason knew well before. Time seemed still in those cold black rooms. Vorkuta, the dirty prison that it was, never allowed for much light inside its barriers. Most days Mason kept his back against freezing stone walls, and his stiff fingers digging into wet muddied grounds; the guards, from what he could understand, did not allow him to enter the mines with the other prisoners. They kept him isolated during the working hours, only permitted to interact with the inmates during “rest hour.” Passage through night and day often faded together. Mason wouldn’t know what time it was or what day they were on, had it not been for his fellow prisoners. Each of them were strong, determined men working enough to appease the guards but scheming right underneath their high-held noses. _“It is temporary”_ they'd say, _“we will not be here forever.”_

Tightly Mason clutched onto his last few ounces of hope. If these men remained determined through each aching and strenuous day, so could he; and thankfully, he was never completely alone. “Rest hour” provided enough time for him to learn the stories of the other inmates. Cold nights were spent wrapped up in blankets, circled around a fire pit, and sharing each other’s favorite memories. Mason being the only American in Vorkuta made communication rather limited for the first few nights, though. He did not understand Russian, and while quite a few prisoners understood English, the majority could not speak it well. The inmates used hand motions and a few English words as an attempt to include Mason in the discussions, which worked well enough, for the moment.

One night, several hours into storytelling, a larger man sat down on the snow beside Mason. He was much older than Mason, at least in his fifties, with a thick seemingly unkempt beard, scars, wrinkles, and dust from the mines covering his rugged face. His callused hands were tightly wrapped in binds of cloth, gripping onto a long carved stick, which Mason found a little odd. Quietly Mason gave him a knowing nod, and continued to listen- or watch- one of the inmates tell a story. The older man nodded as well, but did not turn away from Mason.

_“He is Abrasha Kovalchuk,”_ the older man said, _“...and he speaks of our brave battle in Stalingrad.”_

His English was far better than anyone else's in Vorkuta, that Mason could recall. At the time, he wondered why this man waited for so long to speak to him. _“Did you fight with many of these men?”_ Mason asked.

_“Yes. We fought to defend what was ours, our home and land, from the German animals.”_ The older man replied. _"Some would say it was in vain, but I still believe in the beauty of our nation."_

Mason nodded, but found himself curious. _"So what, they throw their own manpower in these places?"_

A sudden burst of bellowing laughter erupted from the man, and a wrapped hand found its way to Mason's shoulder. _"I am here because I am loyal to my country, not to the dogs that now control it. Many of our friends here feel the same."_ Gesturing to the circle of prisoners, the older man continued, _"If we will not lay down our lives, we are nothing to them. Mason, do you love your country?"_

_"Absolutely."_ Mason replied. There was no question of that.

_"Would you love it, even if it was falling apart?"_

At that, Mason didn’t need to pause. Loyalty knew no bounds, at least not to him. _"...Strong men keep their nation both on their shoulders and in their hearts. As my father always said."_

The older man grinned, pulling his bandaged hand from Mason's shoulder and resting it into the snow. _"Your father was a wise man, and so you are too, Mason.”_ He said, _“To have such love for your home, even in times when her own people betray her, that is true loyalty."_

It was a statement that Mason couldn’t argue with. These men, with their dirtied and scarred faces, were not deserving of this prison. They fought in defiance of people who made a mockery of their home, defended their lands, their families; despite the glaring differences between them and Mason, these men were soldiers, just like him. 

_“I am Viktor Reznov,”_ The older man continued, _“I was a captain within the 3rd Shock Army.”_

_“I would introduce myself, but, uh, you already know... who I am.”_ Mason replied with a little upturned smile.

Reznov chuckled. _“Knowing your name does not mean much, Mason. Every night we join here to learn more about each other, and all I know of you is the battles you have fought, not who you are without a gun.”_

As the noisy crowd around the fire pit began to dissipate, Mason and Reznov remained in the snow. The fire died down, nearly burning out before Reznov jabbed at the burning logs with his stick, setting them alight once more. 

_“There really isn’t much to tell.”_ Said Mason.

Reznov placed the stick beside himself, then tightened his handwraps. _“Nonsense. I am sure there is lots to say. Tell me, is your father a hunter, Mason?”_

_“Uh- yes, he is. Has been for a very long time.”_

_“My father was an accomplished musician, but like every honorable man, he provided for his family.”_ Reznov lifted his hands, and mimicked the motion of aiming with a rifle. _“He taught me how to properly wield a gun at five, and how to kill at ten. Did your father teach you how to hunt, Mason?”_

As much of an avid hunter as his father was, he never let Mason touch his guns, especially not at _five years old._ Just the idea of a child that young handling a weapon made his skin crawl. Mason decided to keep that to himself. _“When... I was eleven, he took me on my first hunt. We camped overnight, tracking a bear. Once we found a good spot, he let me take the shot.”_

_“Ah, the great bear. King of the Snow, Killer of Men.”_ Reznov grinned, patting Mason’s shoulder once again. _“How wonderful, Mason. A good hunt like that means the furs kept you warm and the meat filled your table. Reminds me much of my own experience, spending countless hours in the wild… Tell me more about your own.”_

In Vorkuta, Mason spent most days trapped in freezing darkness, isolated and shivering in his own corner within the prison. His only opportunity to communicate remained during the evening, chatting happily around the camp’s fire pit or near his own that he and Reznov put together some distance away from the crowd. Reznov insisted that they moved the smaller pit into Mason’s _“cell,”_ but the possibility of that going over well with Vorkuta’s guards seemed very, very low. However the threat of a beating or temporary separation didn’t seem to worry Reznov at all. Often the old Russian would risk sneaking away from the mines just to speak with Mason during labor hours. Whether it was a short update on Vorkuta’s current _gossip,_ news from the outside, or a simple hello, Reznov insisted on speaking to Mason every single day since their first meeting, that chilly evening at the fire pit.

Years ago, Mason had jumped to his nation’s defense to fight men like Reznov, those whose fiery patriotism seemed stronger than their will to stay alive; their pride was their death wish, but of course, that went both ways. Reznov joined his country’s army for the very same reason. His passion to bring back Russia’s greatness was stronger than his broken loyalty to the men he once respected. It was that stubborn tenacity to honor his countrymen, fallen and living, that formed the bond between him and Mason. Where Reznov saw potential in Mason’s spirit, Mason saw great purpose in Reznov’s mission.

_“Do your comrades have a name for you, Mason?”_ Reznov asked.

_“Not that I’m aware of.”_ Mason shrugged. _“Unless “dumbass” counts.”_

Frowning, Reznov replied, _“It seems they do not see your worth, then. I have decided, I will call you_ **_Lebed_** _,_ _Swan.”_

If Mason were to give himself a nickname, he wouldn’t have picked that. _“Swan”_ wasn’t a word that struck fear in the souls of young soldiers on the field. It didn’t have the image that Mason wanted for himself, but Reznov felt that it fit. Mason never got the chance to ask why. It was long after curfew that night, and Reznov had to sneak out of Mason’s cell before the guards discovered that he was missing from his own.

A common detail strung between each memory fragment that Mason often looked back to. In Vorkuta, Mason had found camaraderie, friendships, a family in a time of struggle; but in this world, they should be enemies. _“Enemy,”_ that was such a dehumanizing term. It paints the warzone as a black and white photograph: the men you fight against are not people; they are not husbands, nor fathers, nor brothers, nor sons; they’re _enemies._ The time Mason spent in Vorkuta completely tore this concept apart. He could never picture the Vorkuta inmates as his _“enemies.”_

The long cold days built a tight trust between him and these men. With Reznov, Mason admitted it was much different. The connection they had was unlike the friendships Mason had before, something stronger than that of a normal friendship. Reznov himself described it as companionship, a deep love between men, but not like that of lovers. It was a strange concept that Mason didn’t understand, but he had no qualms with being a part of it. Reznov kept him awake in Vorkuta’s darkest depths, warm when the weather happened to be far too cold; really, Reznov kept Mason alive on days when he’d rather be dead. This relationship that Reznov developed around him- and ultimately _with_ him- wasn't anticipated, Mason believed, but it was warmly accepted. An evening of usual revelry in the camp had brought that to light.

Snug in blankets and settled around their personal fire pit, far from anyone else, Reznov told Mason yet another story.

_“When I was still just a boy, I went on my first hunt alone. My father handed me his rifle, and said, “Viktor, bring us back something good.” I wanted to impress him, I wanted to catch something big. But hours into my hunt, I didn’t find a thing. Until I had approached a lake, with a giant swan resting on the waters.”_ Reznov gestured with his hands, drawing with the air the scene he described, _“He had to be the biggest, most beautiful swan I have ever seen. Peaceful he was, on the clear lake water. It had been a harsh winter, but this part of the land had hardly been touched by the cruel cold.”_ His former excitement fell, and with a hushed voice, he continued, _“But I was a foolish boy, Mason. Quietly I hid behind the trees, steadied my gun, and fired. I did not miss.”_

Moments of silence passed between them. Mason wasn’t sure how to respond. The pit’s flames crackled, catching a swift winter breeze that had pushed the fire down, but Reznov quickly jabbed at the logs with his stick before the fire could die out, as he had so often before. 

With a sigh, Reznov placed the stick in front of the pit and resumed his story. _“It was not until his body floated to the edge of the lake that I realized what I had done. His mate, oh she landed nearby, circling him over and over. Her head low, gently pressing against his body... I knew she was crying for him.”_

Often Reznov spoke of battles and vendettas in his tales, but out of all the stories he had told him, this had to be, interestingly, one of the more unhappy ones. Reznov seemed so crestfallen as he spoke of it. _“...Did you take him back with you?”_ Mason asked.

_“Yes, with my head hung in shame. My father was not impressed with me.”_ Reznov replied. _“You do not shoot swans, Mason.”_

On the topic of swans, Mason recalled their conversation over a week prior. He never did get an explanation. _“Why do you call me “Swan” ?"_

That, it seemed, was a subject Rznov waited to speak of. "Like _the swan who embraced her mate in death, swans are beautifully loyal birds, and they are very, very brave."_ He replied. _“If I had encountered his family, I know that swan would have fought me to protect it.”_

Mason found the meaning behind it rather heartwarming. To his knowledge, no one spoke of him with that kind of sentiment. Perhaps Reznov had been right, then. _“Heh, I thought it was because you think I'm "pretty."_ Mason joked.

With a raspy bellowing laugh, Reznov said, _“Haha, well, I did not say otherwise, did I?”_

A guard’s shout in the distance, as it occurred every night, signaled the order: “return to your cells.” Mason stood up first, and turned to assist Reznov. He grabbed the older man’s bandaged hand, and lifted him from the snow. Once on his feet, Reznov held Mason’s hand tightly in his grasp, leading him away from the patrolling guards’ view. In a shadowed corner, Reznov pulled Mason into a tight embrace, and placed a chaste kiss on his lips; the “Soviet Kiss,” as Reznov had called it before, exchanged only between men who trusted each other greatly; an explanation wasn’t the same as receiving one, though, and this one felt different from those that Reznov had given before. As Reznov's touch lingered against him, seconds longer than usual, Mason came to realize this wasn’t completely fraternal.

Indecision. For a moment, at least. If an issue existed, Mason wouldn't have let _this_ go so far. There were various opportunities presented in the past, yet Mason allowed it. He didn't care. This was _Reznov._ The practical leader of Vorkuta, and the only person he would ever put this much trust into; the _only_ person.

Mason leaned forward and pressed, slowly, into another kiss, moving his hands to grip onto the older man’s tattered coat and pull him closer. Reznov didn’t protest Mason’s advances, instead he happily returned them. A bandaged hand found itself against Mason’s face. Rezov placed kisses on either cheek, his fluffy beard tickling Mason’s skin.

_“Brave you are, Mason,”_ Reznov whispered, _“To do this with watchful eyes wandering around us.”_

Smiling, Mason replied, _“It’s for... uh, future reference.”_

Reznov grinned, and quickly swept himself away towards the cells. His large figure disappeared behind giant closing doors; as they slammed shut Mason felt his heart sink. For yet another night, he would spend hours in cold, dark isolation. The feeling of Reznov’s warm embrace continued to pass through his thoughts as the evening dragged on, and Mason wondered if he would ever get the chance to fall asleep by the old Russian’s side.

Over a decade since then, and he still wonders, hoping to pull himself into Reznov’s arms again, all in vain. It would never happen. 

Viktor Reznov was dead.

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

If he could go back and stop himself from ever meeting Viktor Reznov, the absolute disaster that came of Alex Mason’s life after Vorkuta could be avoided. Even if that meant he would die choking as Nova Six fried his insides or burn alive in an atomic blast, so be it. It would spare him the pain of heartbreak, the splitting migraine aftermath of his infamous interrogation, and his current fractured mental state. Mason’s reputation among people, his so-called friends, had been shredded; he was “unstable,” and “unhinged.” None of them believed his stories of Vorkuta, none except Hudson and Woods. 

Thinking Woods wouldn't have made it out of Vietnam was a mistake on Mason's part. That man could survive anything thrown at him, in a very literal sense. Frank Woods had stood loyal by Mason’s side during the entire post-Vorkuta and Rusalka madness, despite still recovering from his own trauma: the horrors of Da Nang. Accusations of treason were thrown beside Mason’s name following the _confirmation_ of his hand in Steiner’s murder, and remained several years afterwards; Woods had defended Mason with every breath for almost ten years now. For quite some time though, any attempt Woods had made to contact Mason once they finally returned from Da Nang, Mason ignored for weeks. Hudson was intent on beating _“I know it’s not your fault but I want you to know that I still don’t trust you yet”_ into Mason’s ears every chance he got, and Mason just wanted to be left alone. Woods was hard to get rid of, though; unfortunately, Hudson was, too.

Hudson let his suspicions get the better of him. Mason fought tooth and nail with him in the interrogation room, and although Mason had Hudson to thank for pulling him out of his “forced mental lockout,” Hudson’s initial resentment for Mason’s connection with Reznov left bad blood between them.

_“You’re not a traitor, Mason.”_ Hudson had said, _“I know you much better than that.”_

According to Hudson, Reznov had died sometime during the Second Vorkuta Uprising, five years before Mason was apprehended at Rebirth Island. For those five years, Mason’s belief that Reznov was there- with him, talking to him, brushing his shoulder with the lightest touches- Hudson had attributed it all to the brainwashing. In rooms where he was supposedly alone, Mason felt Reznov’s constant presence: visually, audibly, and physically. It couldn’t have just been the work of “extreme” brainwashing as Hudson tried to say, even now Mason would not believe that. 

Hudson also claimed Reznov _contributed_ to Mason’s brainwashing- at least “indirectly.” Supposedly he was aware of what Dragovich and Kravchenko wanted, and what Steiner had done, Hudson had claimed, so Renzov overwrote their work with his own plan. Mason refused to believe that. Reznov wasn’t like them, he told Mason the things that they had done. Dragovich, Kravchenko, and Steiner were all evil men, and they all deserved to die. Mason was the sword that Reznov needed to do the job. 

Mason felt honored to bring their deaths for Reznov, a man's last request. Hudson however, was not so enthused.

_“You did exactly what he wanted you to do, Mason! He made you like this!”_

But Reznov wasn’t like them. Reznov was a man of loyalty and honor. He believed the goodness of all men was the soul of the nation, and those that corrupted the soul deserve to be destroyed. If Hudson could see the world as Reznov did, maybe then he would understand.

Mason believed that still, even now. Over a decade since then. 

If he could go back and stop himself from ever meeting Viktor Reznov, Mason believed that he wouldn't do it. There isn't anyone on this Earth like him, and that’s a good enough reason to keep things the way they are. 

But that left him plagued by painful migraine headaches, swollen with memories of cold winter nights; reminders of the last few moments of his life, where he was truly happy. In his hands, Mason held a small but heavy red drawstring bag. 

...

_“We went back and did a sweep of Vorkuta.” Hudson explained, “There wasn’t much left, but… We did find the remains of Viktor Reznov. He had this tucked away in his coat.” A tiny red bag landed into Mason’s hands, heavy enough to push into his palms. “Now technically, I’m not supposed to do this Mason, but I know it’s nothing worth my time. It was meant for you, so you deserve to have it.”_

...

On the bedside table, the little clock read 6 AM. He has plans today.

Mason clutched the plush cloth to his chest. Every night seemed to get colder and colder.

_“For you, moy Lebed, I would melt the snow.”_

It felt like winter in November.

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You do not shoot swans, Mason.
> 
> \---
> 
> In this story, both Woods and Mason are no longer active in the CIA or OP40 ( or S.O.G, obviously lol), nor do they remain in service. (For now.) 
> 
> Mason was discharged in 1968 after the Rusalka incident, while Woods remained in, until his capture and imprisonment at Hanoi Hilton, then Da Nang. He left service in 1975... much to Hudson's disappointment. (Reasons and further information detailed later)
> 
> Anyways I wanna smack Hudson's bald ass head.
> 
> Next chapter: 30.3 Passageways: Winter in November


	3. 30.3 Passageways: Winter in November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Apologies for the long wait. (I am working on art pieces for these stories with my free time as well)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has given kudos, commented, or simply took a chance to read. I appreciate it a lot.
> 
> Next chapter: 30.4 Vacuity: The Sermon Abyss
> 
> EDIT: Fixed some dates. I need to stop posting these in the middle of the night.

**30.3 Passageways: Winter in November**

It had been several days since Mason marked off the calendar. He has only spent a week in South Carolina, and it passed on as if it were years, each hour dragging into the other; yet as Mason laid in bed and stared, silent, observing the planner's unmarked monthly squares, nothing seemed to have changed at all. Every waking day, exactly like the other, quietly fading between evening and morning... unbeknownst to himself. That, Mason wondered, could not have been a new feeling, could it? That moment, several years before then, as the burning Rusalka finally sunk to the ocean floor, had borne the day that Mason could finally return home to Fairbanks… yet pressing his feet against familiar ground did not bring the happiness that Mason had expected then. Everything, from old photos that hung from the walls of his family home to the vast forest stretching for miles in his backyard, felt as significant as dust on a vintage mantelpiece. An emptiness had crept into Mason’s soul that day, choking himself from within. The days following his departure from service had left him hollowed out; what remained was nothing more than broken shards of memory, beaten into dust. Dirt. Wet icy mud on the grounds of Vorkuta.

Cold. Bleak. A winter that lasts far too long.

On the bedside table, Mason glanced at his little ruby red alarm clock. 6:22 AM, it read; early morning. Today, Mason recalled, he had plans. There were times and places he needed to remember, important information that just happened to not make it onto his untouched calendar, but Mason would not forget it. Forgetting was a skill that Mason simply did not have.

In his hands, Mason still tightly held that small, heavy red drawstring bag. His trembling fingers wrapped around its covered contents, and pressed the plush cloth to his chest. 

_“For you, Mason. Not for me.”_

A soft noise, the faint humming of a person’s voice, had abruptly picked up downstairs, its the volume slowly rising- a radio, Mason realized. Woods must be awake. Heavy footsteps stomped up each stair, and stopped in front of Mason’s door.

Three quick thumps. _Knock-knock-knock!_

“Wake up, sunshine! We’ve got shit to do today!”

Mason put the tiny pouch away, hidden inside the bedside table’s drawer. “...Yeah,” He replied, and just as he slid the drawer closed, a small ache had rose behind his eyes. Frowning, Mason pinched between his brows, and groaned, “Yeah, I’m awake.”

“So get your ass down here! We’ve got no time t-! Shit, the eggs are burning-!”

Woods’ loud steps descended back to the lower floor. A sudden stench, something awfully sulfurous, had eased into Mason’s room, and water began to bubble up at the corners of his eyes. Quickly Mason kicked the blankets off of himself, rubbing his red swollen eyes and sprinting towards the door. As he twisted the bronze doorknob, Mason paused. Without much reason, the smell had disappeared.

No gas leak, then; but if not a leak, Mason thought, then what was that sudden acrid, chemical-like odor?

Mason turned, staring back at the bedside table. Dark blue-gray light had now spread into the bedroom, shining through the thin curtains that draped over the large square window just above the table. The clock read 6:35 AM.

“Mason! What the fuck are you doing, man? I didn’t burn these eggs for you to ignore me, goddammit!”

Downstairs, something had slammed, or fallen, and another curse escaped Woods’ mouth. With a heavy sigh, Mason turned away from the bed and opened the door. He and Woods had plans today.

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

The night before, Woods had insisted that Mason wear a plain shirt, white or blue, buttoned or tee, with his jeans and black jacket instead of the white striped shirts he had originally picked; Woods reasoned that the striped shirts had made Mason “look like a British sailor begging for it up the ass.” That bizarre statement, and Mason's shocked expression, just wasn't enough for Woods though, and he then proceeded to claim that, “Everyone knows those British sailors are fucking each other, Mason.”

Arguing with Woods was hardly worth the breath however, and Mason kept his retort quiet. He didn’t particularly care for stripes, anyway.

After a quick shower, Mason attempted to present himself as decently as possible. A nice outfit was only one factor of that; Mason had a more strenuous task at the moment: to tackle the monstrous beard he had developed over the past six months. It took around three or four minutes of rigorous shaving for Mason to make it look acceptable, at the very least _._ In such a short time, the white marble sink became completely covered in thick brown hairs.

“Heh, looks like you dropped twenty pounds off your face, Alex.”

Mason looked up from the mountain of hair to Woods’ grinning reflection in the bathroom mirror. “You think?” He asked.

Nodding, Woods moved to lean against the doorway. “Yeah, I mean, you look a hundred percent better. Maybe if you did this more often, you might even _feel_ better.”

Mason paused, razor in hand, and stared back at his friend’s reflection. Woods’ grin faltered; the exchange had suddenly come to a strange halt. A quiet moment passed, and Mason had returned his focus to taming his unkempt hair, and Woods’ blurry figure seemed to dissipate from the edge of his vision.

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

One of Woods’ characteristics that Mason found both likable and annoying (somehow simultaneously) was his love of music. Woods had to have his radio on, preferably near max volume, any time he was doing something, especially if it was a rather tedious chore. During their time in service together, when away from a radio, Woods would often hum a tune or sing a few lines from a song; “to ease the tension and lighten the mood” he claimed. Mason usually went along with Woods’ musical habits. It never bothered him too much.

As Mason fastened the final button on his jacket, guitar chords began to play through the radio’s speaker that he recognized. A song from several years ago, one that Mason absolutely _loathed._

_“All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray_

_I've been for a walk on a winter's day_

_I'd be safe and warm if I was in L.A._

_California dreamin' on such a winter's day”_

He stepped into the kitchen, and found the radio placed at the center of the dining room table, and Woods sitting near it, examining his plate full of burnt eggs yet perfectly fried bacon. Woods’ radio was a large portable type, with a large speaker on the front left side and big round knobs on the right. It appeared to be leather-wrapped in the shade of forest green, a color Woods himself favored a lot. Mason pulled out the remaining chair and sat down across from Woods.

“Finally made it out the bathroom?” Woods asked, looking up from the plate. “What took you so damn long, eh?”

_“Stopped in to a church I passed along the way_

_Well I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray_

_You know the preacher liked the cold_

_He knows I'm gonna stay_

_California dreamin' on such a winter's day”_

“I couldn’t find my boots, turns out they were under the bed for some reason...” Mason replied, frowning, then shook his head. “You’ve got to turn this station, Woods.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like this song.”

A piss-poor excuse, but Woods simply rolled his eyes and swiveled the tuner knob, scanning for a different station. “You suck, Mason.”

Woods sifted through various news broadcasts and talkshows. Several topics shifted and babbled through the static. Broken sentences seemed to string together, and a sudden thought caught Mason’s attention. “Any information on the cold front?”

“Not a damn thing.” Woods scoffed. “Nothing we don’t already know, anyway. It’s coming in from the arctic, bringing _insane_ temperature changes every goddamn minute, and right now the excuse is a freaky “polar jet stream” that came out of butt-fucking nowhere. But I dunno shit about this weather stuff, so I can’t tell you if that sounds legitimate or not.” Finally, he settled on a station, and grinned. “Apparently some guy, those superstitious types, started a rumor that the “ _Russkies_ ” had deployed a “ _Soviet Weather Machine_ ” in Canada, and the snow has a “ _mind-controlling bio-agent_ ” in it or some shit and now people are afraid to breathe in the winter air. It’s so fucking stupid but, you know, very funny too. Like Hudson!”

“Soviet Weather Machine…?” Mason shook his head, a tiny smile crossing his face. “People will make up the dumbest shit.”

Woods broke off a piece of bacon, and tossed it into his mouth. “‘m serious, Alex. Guy really said that.” He grabbed another bacon slice, and flailed it around as he spoke. “It’s the mass hysteria. People will believe anything when they’re afraid, I swear. You want a piece?”

A slice of bacon was shoved towards Mason’s face. Mason glanced at it, then back to Woods. “How the hell do you manage to destroy the eggs but not the damn bacon?”

“The eggs just didn’t stand a chance against me and my skills, Mason.” Woods laughed. “You know that.”

“No,” Mason took the slice, and bit off a piece, “You just can’t cook.”

“N- Shut the fuck up and eat it, you _dick!_ ” Scowling, Woods pushed the plate towards Mason.

“I am, asshole!”

“Not if you’re talking!”

“Wh-!”

“Shhh!” Woods quickly waved a hand towards Mason. He twisted the radio’s volume knob to the right, raising the volume of the music. “I love this song,” he whispered, and moved his hand along with the slow beat.

_“Nights in white satin,_

_Never reaching the end,_

_Letters I've written,_

_Never meaning to send.”_

Mason leaned back in the chair, watching as Woods sang along with the old song. This situation happened often, and Mason knew better than to disturb this man and his music. Quietly Mason grabbed another piece of bacon and glanced to the wall clock. 7:22 AM, it read. They had to leave soon.

_“Beauty I'd always missed_

_With these eyes before,_

_Just what the truth is_

_I can't say anymore.”_

There was enough time for Woods to listen to his song, though. Mason’s gaze fell to the plate once again. The strips of bacon were almost gone, but the burnt eggs were untouched. That sudden acrid, sulphurous odor had returned to Mason’s memory, and for a moment, he considered asking Woods about it. However, his singing friend seemed to be enjoying the music. Mason held the thought for later.

**🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎**

Yesterday, a letter had arrived in the mail, but from whom seemed to be a mystery. Inside, a large flyer, folded within the lavishly adorned envelope; an anonymous invitation to Charleston’s annual Veteran’s Day Celebration. Dempsey had lived in Charleston all his life, never once had he decided to attend the parade, and never once was he personally invited, even after he had retired from service. Dempsey never cared to go, anyway. Not once had it crossed his mind. 

Dempsey kicked back in his recliner and closely read over each line written in the invitation. “ _Welcome,_ ” it said, “ _You have been invited!_ ” Bullshit, Dempsey thought, but continued to the next line. “ _The City of Charleston happily invites every brave soul who has sacrificed so much protecting our freedom to this year's Veterans Day Celebration on Thursday, November 11th, beginning at 11:00 AM in spite of the Uniforms Holiday Bill, which the City has not nor will comply with. All attending veterans will be treated generously with accommodating…_ ” blah blah blah. Dempsey folded the flyer into a thick rectangle and tossed it onto the coffee table, then leaned back into his chair with a sigh.

Dempsey had little interest in parties anymore. The juvenile urge to indulge in mindless revelry had disappeared in winter of 1946, the day that he left Japan; even then, he wasn’t sure if his old aching body could handle that kind of entertainment the way it used to. Thomas Dempsey was simply not as young as he once was. 

He had pondered, silently to himself, just what would he gain from going, even for a moment? Thousands of people, some from several states over and hell, even overseas, flocked to Charleston every year just to attend the celebration. Would he recognize anyone there? Would the faces, rugged and wrinkled from trauma and age, mean anything to him?

Many of the men that had fought alongside him have already left this world. Others did not get the chance to pass with loved ones by their side. Some did not even get a bed, or a single fucking quiet moment to die in; all they could do is keel over and pray another bullet happens to catch their brain next time before they have to suffer much longer.

Dempsey tapped his calloused fingers against the soft arm of his chair. The idea of possibly meeting someone, anyone that he had known once before, tempted him greatly. There were countless names lingering in his mind that he spent years trying to connect with faces, but no such luck. Dempsey had expected that, though. He couldn’t remember much.

The tall longcase clock sat situated just where Dempsey could see it from his recliner, right next to the staircase. Its encased pendulum swung back and forth with every second, emitting a tick each swing, filling the silence of his living room. The hour hand rested on the numeral eight, and the minute hand edged near the two. It was 8:07 AM; Thursday, November 11th, 1976.

_Tick-Tick-Tick..._

Countless names. Nameless faces. If he just stayed for a moment, would he see someone he knew?

_Tick-Tick-Tick..._

However the thought dissipated with a heavy exhale. Dempsey grunted, reaching over the chair’s puffy arm and snatched the television remote off of the end table. He passed another glance to the folded flyer, discarded so carelessly.

Dempsey did not know a lot of things, and remembered even less. Much of his life prior to Nihonbashi had been left a blur, and he could only recall scattered moments in small fragments. Details were nonexistent; only the most significant portions, the pieces that stood out more than any other, were brought to mind. Like a large broad armed and stern-spoken man; or a beautiful red-haired woman with such a proud, husky voice… countless names and nameless faces.

A hefty, stout, joke-loving Russian dunkard. A short soft-spoken Japanese man. A crude, striking blue-eyed German- no, _Prussian_ doctor. He was Prussian. _Prussian._ Dempsey remembered that, at least.

_Tick-Tick-Tick..._

_Belinski. Masaki. Richtofen._ These names, Dempsey did his damndest to remember each and every day. He has done so for thirty years. Every other name and every other face, they were not as important, not as these were. Why these three men held such a grip on Dempsey’s memories, he himself did not know; but they were his friends. The most important friends. Dempsey remembered that.

They would not be at the parade. That, Dempsey knew for certain. He believed so, at least. Why, of course, was a mystery; as if they were not a part of this world.

_Tick-Tick-Tick..._

Clicking on the television, Dempsey readjusted himself in his recliner, and flicked through the usual boring channels. Often the monotony of today’s programming provided Dempsey the perfect atmosphere for a nap. Despite the time, he had nothing better to do at the moment, and that flyer had already ruined his day.

Dempsey decided then, he would not go to this parade. He did not want to remember a single thing.

_Tick-Tick-Tick..._

Not anymore.

_Tick._

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music Referenced:
> 
> California Dreamin' by The Mamas and The Papas (1966) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-aK6JnyFmk
> 
> Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues (1967) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cs4RG9u8IVU
> 
> 100% Frank Woods approved tracks.
> 
> -
> 
> For clarification and perspective:
> 
> Thomas Dempsey was born in 1922. He was 20 years old when the United States entered the Second World War and is 54 years old as this story takes place.
> 
> Alex Mason was born in 1933. He was 9 years old when the United States entered the Second World War, in his thirties when serving in Vietnam, and is 43 years old as this story takes place. 
> 
> Frank Woods was born in 1930. He was 12 years old when the United States entered the Second World War, in his thirties when serving in Vietnam, and is 46 years old as this story takes place. 
> 
> Jason Hudson (derogatory) was born in 1932. He was 11 years old when the United States entered the Second World War, and is 44 years old as this story takes place.


	4. 30.4 Vacuity: The Sermon Abyss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I shouldn't try and post these in the middle of the night. I had some really embarrassing errors in the previous chapter, especially with dates (stuff that I should have caught at first glance!)
> 
> Anyways, welcome back! Tonight's chapter focuses on our beloved Tank.

_Dempsey readjusted himself in his recliner, and flicked through the usual boring channels. Often the monotony of today’s programming provided Dempsey the perfect atmosphere for a nap. Despite the time, he had nothing better to do at the moment, and that flyer had already ruined his day._

_Dempsey decided then, he would not go to this parade. He did not want to remember a single thing._

**_Tick-Tick-Tick..._ **

_Not anymore._

**_Tick._ **

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

Summers back home in the states, they paled; there was simply no way to compare it to this. Thomas Dempsey had never experienced the utter dread of boiling in one’s own skin. It only took a few days. Sticky sand crawled into places it shouldn’t be; the inescapable heat lingered, pulsing in every possible direction, suffocating his body and leaving him forever drenched in sweat that never seemed to stop pouring. No, it did not take long before Dempsey had decided the Pacific was _more_ than discomforting. It continued to be Hell on Earth, in more ways than one. On the day he finally returns home, Dempsey concluded then, he would _never_ step foot on the beach again. Ever.

He recalled being placed within a camp, somewhere within the Pacific Islands, and seeking shelter under a tall broad-leaved tree. He’d since tossed his helmet and field coat aside, which did very little for himself in the sweltering heat but it was worth the shot, anyway. Fortunately, the tree chose the perfect spot to grow. Not even a meter away, a flowing river stretched and circled around the campsite; no need to go hunting for freshwater, this time around.

A young private, with a beaming grin and a bright freckled face, happily approached Dempsey and asked, _“How’re ya feelin’, Tank?”_

_“Like I need to shed three more layers of skin...”_ Dempsey groaned, and weakly shielded his face with his arm. _“Straight to the bone…”_

_“Yeah, it’s purty steamy out here today, eh?”_

_“Bit more than steamy, Kent.”_

Laughing, the younger questioned, _“Say, have you heard anything ‘bout your cousin? Wasn’ he s’posed to be commin’ this ‘a way?”_

_“He’s headed this way, goin’ with us to Peleliu.”_ Dempsey sighed an exhausted reply. _“Either to kick ass or get his ass kicked. Dunno why they’re not here yet, though.”_

Kent frowned, a sudden flash of disappointment crossed his red-tinted face. _“Aw well, that’s a shame. I was hopin’ to see Polonsky before we shipped out.”_

Shrugging, Dempsey said, _“Well maybe you’ll see ‘em afterward, if that crazy little bastard doesn’t get himself killed.”_

_“Heh, if he’s anything like you, Tank, he won’t let himself get killed!”_ Kent grinned, and turned to move back towards the camp. _“Well, I’ll get out your hair now. If ya happen to meet up with Polonsky before I do, tell him to come find me!”_

Heavy boots stomped across the steaming dirt; the younger man had already begun sprinting away before Dempsey could say, _“Sure, Kent.”_

“Polonsky,” as the boy called him, would soon ship out to Peleliu. Yet another discomforting thought Dempsey had to sleep with, back then. Erik was no older than fourteen at the time, but the moment he’d heard that Thomas was enlisting, he just _had_ to. It wasn’t that Erik was like him, it was that Erik _wanted_ to be like him, straight down to the burns and scars, all just to prove something; and that scared Dempsey the most. He wasn’t sure who or what the kid was trying to show for. It would be unusual for a young man to resent the idea of fighting for your country, and Erik did the exact opposite; he took that thought to the _extreme._

If the things Dempsey had been told held any water, there was nothing Erik wouldn’t do if you told him to do it. He’d throw himself into a gas fire if he believed it would bring “glory” to the country.

Erik was ambitious, because he was a kid carrying those childish dreams of honor and greatness. By the time they reached Peleliu, Erik would leave that bloodbath as a man. There are no children here, no juvenile hope or aspirations.

That, Dempsey knew for certain. Eighteen-year-old Erik Polonsky would never be the same.

…

There is a bleak space between Erik’s arrival and the final hour at Okinawa. Dempsey knew he had been there, at Shuri Castle, but he could only draw out small hazy flashes of memory… smoke, gas, and mortar fire. An odd moment would come to mind when he thought of it, an unknown place and unknown time, where Dempsey recalled standing in front of a rust-colored river, wondering why water flowing in an area lacking the presence of silt or algae would appear red at all. Dempsey would never know where this place was, or why he had been there, as no one that he had spoken to afterwards knew what he was talking about, either.

The rusted river remained a mystery, even to Dempsey himself, who knew for certain that he had seen it. Fish and aquatic snakes floated atop the red water, pale eyes glazed yellow in tint, and Dempsey quickly realized whatever had infected that river was not silt. 

Dempsey could still hear the sudden splashing, that swollen wrinkled hand moving erratically in the water, grabbing at the wet dirt, and those few passing seconds before a soldier- Japanese, he believed- had hauled himself out of the river. Dempsey reared back and gripped his shotgun. Not another moment passed before he fired towards that bloated, rotting face; a face that remained ingrained, one memory he could not seem to forget, and shared with no one else. 

The soldier’s eyes appeared not so different from the animals that floated above the river: a pale, glossy yellow. Red streaks, the rust-colored water, seeped into the soldier’s uniform, resembling that of blood covering and smearing across his tattered, discolored body, and for a moment, The Pacific didn’t feel as hot anymore. Dempsey stepped away; a rough hand had grabbed at his coat from behind… and yet another fragment dissipated into nothing. Dempsey could not remember what exactly happened after that.

Only nine diamond-shaped patterns on a prison ceiling, three concrete walls, and five giant steel bars to stare out of. He could still picture a uniform though, a formal one that Dempsey had never seen before. A pale man dressed in a black and red greatcoat would walk up and down the halls before occasionally disappearing into one of the many rooms in the facility. This man was not his enemy; Dempsey felt odd admitting that about a German official, but he did not hold any harsh resentment against this man, at least not that he could remember.

_“I find it hard to believe that you cannot understand this. You have been here for several days, Thomas Dempsey.”_

_“It’s pronounced Demp-SEE, you goddamn-! What- there’s no way in hell I’m all the way in Germany!”_

_“You truly are not the brightest person, are you?”_

_“I’m a ray of fuckin’ sunshine! You’d know what it’s like if you’d open up a damn window in this place!”_

_“There is nothing interesting happening outside that requires you to have a window, Dempsey.”_

The Pale Man in the Greatcoat. For quite some time, that was the only thing Dempsey could remember him by. He could have called him “The German,” but there were many Germans that roamed those halls, none of which looked like this man. He held a significant position among them, his flashy adorned greatcoat proved that. He was the only one with such a uniform, and not just in the facility, either; the only one, ever. Months of extensive research brought nothing.

According to historical archivists, that type of uniform never existed, and according to historical archivists, there were no chemical spills in the Pacific during the Second World War, nor any infectious parasites that attack humans living in the water that happens to cause heightened aggression and putrefaction while somehow remaining “alive.” According to historical archivists, there was no German Prisoner of War “facility” that held American, Soviet, and Japanese prisoners along with their own, not one like Dempsey recalled, and there were no indications that any of the prisons were testing a “bright blue-colored serum” on its inmates.

According to historical archivists, Thomas Dempsey was either highly mistaken, or simply insane.

He couldn’t just conjure these things out of thin air. Dempsey remembered them, not vividly, but recognized them as true. These small fragmented moments flashing in his head, he knew they happened, somewhere at some time. They would never disappear. He bared the evidence to prove it. On his forearm, Dempsey carried a wide, thick scar from that cut, and underneath it, three small letters were practically carved into his skin.

“N. T. E.”

He first spotted the scar in Nihonbashi, just before his division had left to return to the States. For several years, Dempsey did not understand what the letters meant, nor how or why he had them. Many ideas ran through his head; someone’s initials, or an acronym of some sort. Nothing ever connected to it, though. Not until much, much later. Thirty years.

Thirty years ago, Dempsey had fallen to a mind-breaking headache that dropped him to his kitchen floor, and he remembered their names.

_Nikolai Belinski,_ a Soviet Soldier, and a damn drunkard, but he was much friendlier that way. _Takeo Masaki,_ an Imperial Envoy, not really a talker, but ever the loyal one, with many witty retorts saved for the perfect moment. _Edward Richtofen,_ the “Pale Man in the Greatcoat,” a sawbones with combat training, and a terrifying sense of humor.

Perhaps Dempsey truly was insane. Maybe these people- his _friends-_ have been mere figments of his own design, a consequence of trauma, like he had been told for so many years. The red river, the walking corpse of a mutilated Japanese soldier, the POW facility, _“Element 115,”_ and the creatures created with it- _“Verrückt”_ as _Richtofen_ had called them; all of it, simply creations of his broken imagination. No one knew of it, because it never happened. It should be that _simple._

But it wasn’t, because Dempsey just couldn’t believe that.

Every remaining shard of memory felt far too real to be “figments rendered by trauma.” Could he carve the names of “imaginary” people onto his skin with the power of his _brain?_ Why couldn’t the men telling him he was crazy explain where the black abyss in his memory came from? If he truly was insane, then why was it so difficult for them to tell him _why_ he was wrong?

Thomas Dempsey had witnessed the world around him crumble down into nothing, and the only people that helped him survive it couldn’t be here to walk with him through _this_ one. If he had been given the option to stay there, then Dempsey believed he would have stayed.

_“There is a rather large cut on your arm, Dempsey. Here, I will help you.”_

_“For the last damn time, it’s Dem- aghh! Fuck, Richtofen! That shit hurts!”_

_“Would you prefer to lose your arm, instead?”_

Except, he had been given the option; a choice to suffer or find peace.

_“If you cut off Dempsey's arm, I will destroy you, German.”_

_“Ugh, you drunken brute! I am Prussian, not G-”_

_“You would topple over before you reached him, Russian.”_

He could have remained on that dying planet, or return to a time where that disease-ridden future would never happen. Dempsey had chosen the latter.

_“I have_ **_never_ ** _fallen over. Nikolai does not fall easy! I will crush you, Takeo.”_

_“All of you are fucking stupid, so shut up- Ow! Goddamn it, Doc!”_

Yet those memories, what little he had left, would remain; a haunting shadow in the back of his mind, a reminder of everything he left behind, all for the sake of no one but himself. Dempsey could hear it, somewhere far away, that Prussian bastard's bullshit statement.

_“There is nothing here for you, and there is nothing there for me.”_

All he wanted was to find that damn ship, but nothing was waiting on the shore for them.

_“It will be alright, Dempsey. You won’t remember me.”_

Edward Richtofen was a goddamn liar.

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

_Tick-Tick-Tick…_

10:45 AM. Thomas Dempsey awoke in his recliner with a headache, a dry mouth, and a pinched nerve in his back. Nothing unusual.

_Knock-knock-knock._

Morons at his door. Nothing unusual there, either. Dempsey stood up from his chair, disregarding the pulsing pain in his back as he moved towards the door. The old knob had an odd habit of occasionally catching when turned, a problem he had yet to fix. Dempsey gripped the knob and, no such luck, it had caught itself on an invisible force. Groaning, Dempsey wiggled the knob back and forth, then yanked the door wide open. 

As expected, a literal moron was waiting on the other side.

Dempsey sighed, and pinched between his brows. "Dammit Erik, what are you doing down here?"

“Well, I’m happy to see you too, cuz!” Erik frowned. “Who pissed in your cereal this morning?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Queens with your mom? Isn’t she still sick?”

“No? Thomas, I told you that already. About six months ago?” Erik shook his head. “You need to get out the house more, man. You’re shriveling away, stuck in here like this. Look, I came down for the parade, and decided to come see how you were doing. We haven’t talked in a while, an-”

“I’m not going to the damn parade.” Dempsey sourly replied, then stepped back to close the door. Erik quickly kicked out his foot and stopped it in place.

“C’mon, Thomas! You need some time to breathe! You’re acting like a senior citizen, and you’re not even sixty yet!”

The younger man stared up at him with weak, sorrowful eyes; an expression reminiscent of one Erik wore often in his youth. Ignoring a seemingly dejected child was a task Dempsey couldn’t perform, and Erik took full advantage of that weakness back then; now it appeared that he had yet to drop the skill.

“...Fine.” Sighed Dempsey. “What time?”

“About… 20 minutes from now.” Erik grinned.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

“Hey, you’re the master of getting things done quickly, right?” Erik replied. “I’ll stick around. We can be royally late together!”

Thirty years ago, Thomas Dempsey finally came home from Japan, and ever since then, he could never forget everything he’d left behind in the horror he tried so desperately to escape. Opening the door to his house that day had felt like betrayal, but Dempsey couldn’t even remember who he was crossing. The cold season brought in an awful chill from the coast. His home wasn’t spared the winter weather, it seemed; stepping inside was like entering a morgue.

In this horrific cold front, the weather outside felt warmer than within the walls of his home.

“Hey, neat little rose you’ve got there.” Erik gazed over his shoulder. “Pretty.”

Dempsey turned to the old opaque glass vase sitting atop the kitchen table. “That’s… been there for a while.” He quietly replied.

“Where’d you get it?”

“...A friend.” 

“Right.” Erik smirked. “A _“friend.”_ Didn’t think you were a kind of guy that liked being sent flowers, Thomas.”

Dempsey rolled his eyes, then stepped back from the door. As Erik stepped inside, Dempsey passed one more glance to the vase; a familiar voice suddenly came to mind.

_“There are not many things that would make a “suitable” gift anymore, sadly. I hope rosing you with flowers is enough this Christmas, mein Freund. ...Magst du Blumen, Dempsey? I tried to find the brightest one… I think it suits your personality.”_

“...I don’t like flowers.”

“Clearly someone thought you did.” Erik laughed.

Without another remark, Dempsey moved towards the staircase, and stomped up to his bedroom. 

Dempsey recalled, long ago, feeling his heavy body plunge into abysmal depths. Before his eyes, pure darkness; a weight pressed down onto his chest, and he had felt limp, falling towards nothing. He remained blinded, words filled his conscious, repeating and repeating; the voice of a child, harsh and hateful, over and over...

_“Fühlst Sie sich schon wie ein Held?”_

For so long, he fought so hard against something that no one would remember.

_“Fühlst Sie sich schon wie ein Held?”_

In this world, Dempsey did not truly experience what others called his “greatest achievements.”

_“Fühlst Sie sich schon wie ein Held?”_

Here, his memories are called “insanity.” The men that stood by him, whom he loved and cared so much about, were “imaginary.”

_“Fühlst Sie sich schon wie ein Held, Thomas Dempsey?”_

No, not in this world; maybe today, he could meet those who actually deserved to be called “heroes.”

🜎🜍🝤🜍🜎

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you feel like a hero yet, Thomas Dempsey?
> 
> -
> 
> Okay, I won't hold off much longer. Dempsey's old ass actually manages to make it to the parade in the next chapter, I promise.
> 
> Also, I really like the idea of Polonsky and Dempsey being related. I thought it would be neat.
> 
> Speaking of WAW, the character Jamie Kent is not an existing character within the game. Kent was a generic Marine (I did not get to read his "actual" name before he was killed) in WAW that I decided to name after the AI goofed and he jumped in front of me (or Miller, rather) and took down a Banzai. I thought it was amazing, but unfortunately shortly after this event, he was killed. So I wanted to immortalize this brave man, and thus, Jamie Kent was born.
> 
> -
> 
> As I said before, this story is historically compliant, with the exception of supernatural forces, of course. (CODZ itself is very silly, however that silliness does not apply here.) The "doomed future" was the result of a fatal mistake at the 935 Prison Facility (not quite like the one in-game.) Dempsey does not completely remember everything that happened, except that he was there, and then he wasn't. Like most of his memories. 
> 
> (There are more stories planned for this AU, one is to be set inside 935.)
> 
> Next Chapter: 30.5: Evening Descent: Somewhere But Never Here

**Author's Note:**

> As with all of my stories, feedback is appreciated.


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